Amends
by The-voices-told-me
Summary: When worlds collide - another Buffy comes to Sunnydale. One will be left standing. B/F.


_Authors Note: _Okay, so i'm starting yet another story - this is basically my attempt at writing something different, it'll be short chapters, but that's for the story plot and all. It's suppose to be a story that makes you think, although at the same time it's simple, making any sense? If not just read, if you don't like be thankful it was a short chapter :) updates may be slow, then again they may not - depends on how busy I am. But give it a shot. Buffy/Faith.

* * *

She's running.

The rain falling thickly against her

Water soaked hair sticking casually to the side of her face, moving with the motion of her body.

Jarring slightly as her legs never cease; never stop in the pattern she's picked up.

Her breathing cut up, frantic and uneven – boot clad feet slipping only fractions on the muddy grass, regaining control mere seconds later.

It's not dark – not yet.

A bluey-grey covers the sky, masked well only by the murky clouds that seem to never stop crying.

Her fists are clenched, held tightly as she weaves through grave stones. Muscles rippling strongly across her body, tense in their movements.

She is running – yes.

Running away

Her breathing picks up, wanting in her intake of air. She can hear footsteps behind her, soft as they follow her path; can hear the heavy breathing that accompanies them, warning her not to slow.

The rain is blinding, hitting her crimson touched cheeks hard.

Liquid drops falling off her, running down her arms and flicking from her hair.

It's not distracting though – merely water.

And so she keeps up her pace, running as fast as she can although she still seems to lag behind - to run across previous footsteps in the rain soaked ground

Footsteps that belong to a quick blonde; one that has looked back numerous times to check on the other, make sure she is still following.

Still keeping up – if just barely.

She never slows though and only scarcely is she visible in the harsh rain.

Wiping with due speed she pushes her dark hair from her eyes, voice being lost as she heaves heavily. Breathing the bitter cold wind in, the air hurting her lungs – making it harder to get the oxygen she needs.

A light fog has settled near the ground, making the far off distance look eerie and haunted.

She stumbles slightly – hardly seen as her boots meet with concrete.

The crisp and mud covered grass of the graveyard being left for that of the empty street.

Few would be mad to try and tackle the harsh wind and pouring rain, many people are inside – leaving Sunnydale to look abandoned.

She doesn't question were she is heading, for she's all but following the blonde in front of her.

Instead finding a better grip on the graveled ground she quickens in her run.

Gaining if only slightly an edge on her chaser – _their_ chaser

She finds herself wanting to call out, to tell the other to slow down. Although she calculates it's best to let one of them get away, no point in them both going down.

Splashing up dirtied water from the puddles below, she lets out a strained groan, her ears picking up that of the soft footed person behind her.

She dares a look back – panting with verve as the figure closes in on her.

Looking ahead she can see that of the blonde Slayer still running, light and quick on her feet.

Least she'll get away…

And with that thought two hands land strongly on her shoulders, pushing her with the weight of their body as she falls forward.

Gravel cutting into her hands as water splatters over her.

The force of the tackle stealing her breath as she struggles to get free from her attackers grip – vice like and angered.

Words' being spoken with a deathly calm to her, as the noise of the rain threatens to carry it away, "Hey Faithy, looking good."

And as she is turned violently onto her back, pinned down by her arms she merely stares at the person holding her down.

Clad in cheap leather and wearing mascara that due to the weather is now running down her cheeks, blonde hair plastered wet against her face – she's smiling.

Not a cheerful smile – one that beholds the sentiment of pent up pain.

Anger

Hate.

And it's only when she sees this smile does she answer, voice stricken with her own untamed fury.

"Buffy."

* * *

_Authors Note: _*Sits nervously* So...continue?

Remember trying a different style, so go easy on me.


End file.
